Thursday, 31 May 2012

When I was very young, a highlight of the summer was the Sunday school outing. Usually at a tiny old fashioned play park called Wannock Gardens. We'd have a picnic lunch, play on the rides, visit the resident water otter, and spend our pocket money on cheap crap in the gift shop. My mother for some unknown reason told us we could no longer go there as it had fallen into the sea, now it was close to the sea but I didn't think it was that close. I often thought of that magical little place and wished it was still around for my children to see. I discovered recently that it didn't in fact fall into the sea it had just closed down because the owners couldn't maintain it. On the way back from this visit we'd stop near Beachy head, a famous suicide spot that boasts it's own resident counsellor who tries to talk people out of ending it all. I'd look over the edge and shiver as a child not really knowing why, but sensing that this was a very sad place. Over the years the idea of suicide and my Sunday school outings became intertwined as I'd picture The entire play park committing suicide. Thanks mum, yet another unnecessary lie that screwed me up!

Monday, 28 May 2012

This was done in response to a very sad documentary about 'Limbo Babies', babies that die before they are baptised into the Catholic Church. Their parents are forced to bury then in unconsecrated soil, hence the 'limbo' aspect. Parents are known to have sneaked into graveyards at night to bury their babies in secret. So on top of having a broken heart due to the loss of your baby, you aren't even afforded the chance to give your beloved child a dignified burial. Thankfully, this is now changing and the church is bringing in the babies from the cold. The documentary includes mothers in their eighties and nineties still scarred by what they were put through and carrying the guilt of what happened to their children. So very, very sad.

Between the ages of 4 and 6 I lived in Baghdad, Iraq. One of the highlights of summertime was the bug lorry. A huge tanker that sprayed out a white mist of insecticide to keep the mosquitoes in check. We'd run out into the mist delighted by it's magical opacity, being blissfully ignorant of what the hell the chemicals were doing to our fragile bodies. On one occasion, the lorry arrived just as I was being bathed at bedtime, my mother shooed me out completely naked to enjoy the white mist. I was met by a barrage of laughter and pointing from both adults and children. That was the last time I went out to meet the damn thing, I still blush at the memory.

Thursday, 24 May 2012

I have been struggling recently with my work. I've never really stopped to think too deeply about what I am saying or how I'm saying it. I've concluded that over thinking is the best way to stifle my inner voice. That what works for me is to just put the pen to paper and see what turns up. Advance planning just brings on creative constipation. Trusting the inner voice however is not easy, if I argue with it, it just lies and tells me what it thinks I want to hear. A very delicate, easily wounded thing this damn voice!
So for the time being, I've decided to let my critical faculties take a back seat and trust my brain to hand connection. The resulting work might not appeal to everyone, but at least I'll know that I am offering my truth. I can't do any better than that!